


Gentle Herald

by Rubynye



Series: Works in StoatSandwich's 4F Universe (aka, the Adventures of Steve Rogers, Military Prostitute) [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Anal Sex, Artist Steve Rogers, Backstory, Canon Character of Color, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Oral Sex, Ordinary day, Outdoor Sex, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has a very good evening and morning at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Herald

( _Early May, 1944_ )

 

"Oh God, Steve," Juniper chants fervently, crumpling two fistfuls of Steve's untucked shirt. "Oh God oh God oh my God, Steve..." Who bobs up to grab a quick breath, pushes back down and swallows around Juniper's cockhead, gripping his thighs a little tighter, sucking a little harder. Juniper groans gutpunch-deep, belly tensing under Steve's forehead, and Steve digs his knees into the springy moss and pushes down until crisp redolent curls tickle his nose. "Nngh, oh my God..." Juniper's voice cracks high, and Steve can't help but picture his head tipping back, the jerky bob in his throat and the eager arch of his spine. Spurred on by Juniper's noisy pleasure, Steve sucks as hard as he can, swallowing over and over despite the rising airless burn in his chest and the fluttering protest of his half-suppressed gag reflex. He should probably pause for another breath, but Juniper's whimpered litany of, "Steve, please, God, Steve," goes right to his buzzing head. Juniper's so close, so lost in it, fingers pressing hot over Steve's back, hips jerking erratically, and Steve's pulled him here, he can keep it up just a little bit longer --

Juniper cries out and Steve takes the warning, pulling back a bit to keep from choking. Huffing through his nose he hangs on, keeping the pressure steady, pursing his lips close and tight as Juniper gasps an, "Oh!" along with each spurt. "Oh, Steve, oh," he finishes as he drops his hands flat either side of Steve's ribs, quivering down the columns of his arms and all up his front suspended over Steve's back, cock softening in Steve's mouth beat by racing heartbeat. Steve licks his way off, familiar tackiness tugging at his throat as he swallows; he coughs a couple times, still a little air-starved, and for a moment they just gasp in unison.

Eventually Juniper pats Steve's shoulder with a big hand, and Steve's still a bit winded but looks up anyway to watch the pleased smile crease Juniper's peach-fuzzed cheeks. "Wow," he drawls, dazed and happy. "That was --"

"My job," Steve cuts in before Juniper can mortify him with compliments. "I'm glad you liked it," sounds prim to his own ears, and he blushes anyway as he tucks Juniper's cock away and does up his flies for him. 

"Wish we could go again right now," Juniper says like a kid begging for another cookie, and Steve looks up again just in order to roll his eyes. "What?"

"You've got a half night's watch ahead," Steve points out, tugging Juniper's jacket back down his hips, "and I've got six guys waiting their turns." He hefts Juniper's rifle, passes it to him and pokes him in the chest. "So."

Bright eyes crinkling at the corners, Juniper tosses up his free hand in surrender, dragging out a many-syllabled, "Sorr-yyy, sir." 

Steve snarls fondly, leaning up on his knees like he's trying to get in Juniper's face. "You know better." Like he could when Juniper's got easily a foot on him. "Don't sir me--"

Already laughing, Juniper joins in on every noncom's favorite line. "--I work for a living!" Steve bursts out laughing too, reaching up to tug on Juniper's shoulders. He's younger even than Steve, and addlepated with it, and Steve's been where he is recently enough to not make him ask for a kiss.

Also he's big as a moose, his broad hands spanning Steve's back as he leans in eagerly, fitting his smile to Steve's. They snicker in and out of the kiss, and Steve pushes up on Juniper's shoulders to shove himself to his feet. "Mind those corners," he teases to win an eye roll.

Juniper heaves a sigh as well, making Steve smile for real. "Roger, Rogers," he says, which they all love too damn much, and Steve huffs like he's not pleased and salutes as he turns back to the camp, shrugging his own jacket back on as he leaves Juniper to the first watch. 

Even on such a short walk, the forest rises around him. Tall living pillars support the lacy canopy, tender leaves poke through the dark mulch, the breeze brushes damp and scented across his face, counterpoint to the heat beneath his clothes. Last fall when Steve first joined the Howlies the forest loomed dense and unfamiliar, gales streaming hollowly through its bare branches as the root-laced earth tripped him up. Now he's a little more used to the slide of leaf litter beneath his boots, balanced enough on the uneven footing to dare turn his face up to the slantwise evening light.

The new spring leaves glow teal, lofted above deep maroon shadows draped between the distant ranks of tree trunks. Thinking of how to capture these dynamics of light with ink or charcoal, reaching for dim memories of gold and green springtime before some errant punch shifted his vision, Steve walks smack into Gabe Jones's broad chest. "Hey there," Gabe rumbles, wrapping strong hands around Steve's shoulders, smiling down at him, "Hunting for nymphs?"

"No, just knocking trees down with my head," Steve snaps, caught woolgathering. Gabe smiles softly, his eyes darker and warmer than the evening shadows, and presses a plush kiss to Steve's forehead. Steve scowls but settles into Gabe's solid-muscled side and sturdy arm wrapped around him. Gabe's a little too gentle, but Steve can't be mad. 

A few more steps and the clearing opens around them, full of their guys poking around after supper, waiting for dessert. Steve's cheeks prickle, which is silly; he should be used to this by now. He mostly is, but every so often he finds himself looking as if from outside, at himself and the seven soldiers he's assigned to satisfy, at the strange path he's taken to war.

Shaking off the thought, Steve peels himself away from Gabe with, "Wait a sec?" and heads for the tent he shares with Barnes. Earlier, while he prepped for the evening to the music of distant laughter and whispering breezes, he turned an idea over; now he grabs his bedroll and shakes it out. The tarp falls free and he catches it, lugging both through the the tent flap and near enough the fire to catch an edge of warmth. Gabe steps up, taking the bedroll from Steve so he can spread out the tarp first, but when Steve looks up he's got his eyebrows raised and his generous mouth pursed doubtfully.

Steve gives him an eyebrow right back and unbuttons his jacket. "What? It's a nice evening, I want a little air." And the lengthening, blueing evening light, the vast sky arching over them, the reminder on every breath that winter's over. Thawed from fingertips to core, tonight Steve wants to do his job outside in the springtime.

"It's barely May," Gabe says, like that means anything.

As Steve starts on his shirt buttons, he points out, "Hey, if you want me inside your tent's right there." He shrugs his shirt off and folds it. "But if you're worried I'm gonna catch a cold, you can just go cuddle your right hand." Gabe's mouth falls slightly open and snickering drifts across the fire; ignoring the audience, Steve peels off his undershirt. Skin tends to get people going, even as pale and scrawny as his. "What's it gonna be, Jones?" An idea comes to him in his scanty French, and as Steve undoes his flies he adds, "Est-vous timide?"

"Êtes-vous," Gabe corrects automatically, smile widening into a bright laugh as he lifts his hands palms-out. "And unlike some people I don't have to take every dare." He looks interested, though, eyebrows tilting down hungrily, grin bright and broad-toothed as he steps forward. 

Steve squares his shoulders and tips his head back, holding Gabe's gaze as he kicks off his boots, toes off his socks, and shimmies his trousers down his legs. The wind brushes cool over his bared skin, but he's not chilled, not with the fire behind him and Gabe in front of him, just a step away. "Taking this one?"

"Someone's got to keep you warm," gets some hoots from across the fire, and Steve ostentatiously pulls a face until Gabe laughs again. Only then does Steve deign to take the last step, reaching up to wrap his arms around Gabe's neck, drawing a breath for one more smart remark, but Gabe gets the last word by kissing him, full and warm. 

In the depths of his overflowing heart, where he's tucked everything he might tell Arnie one day or maybe just cherish secretly all the way to his grave, Steve likes it when Gabe goes first. He likes Gabe, period. He's lucky enough to like all the Howlies, he's getting used to living with them and knowing them better and better, but as Gabe eases Steve's mouth open and tugs him down to the bedroll, as the fire crackles and the air they share starts to zing, Steve can admit to his own soul that he's particularly fond of Gabe, and of one other. Gabe sets him down a little too softly, and that's the only flaw; Steve points his fingers and digs them in, sharp as he can through Gabe's jacket, and Gabe rumbles and gives him a pushier slide of tongue, a definite improvement. 

For Gabe, Steve reminds himself, tucking his hands between them to unfasten Gabe's jacket and shirt. Settling welcome weight onto his side, Gabe cups his face in a pleasantly rough hand and kisses him deep as a draught. This is Steve's job, his service in the war, to help take care of these fighting men, to pull the pain and tension from them, leaving their strength unimpeded. But Gabe's other hand slides up beneath Steve's undershirt and spreads over his heart, and Steve barely manages to make himself push Gabe's trousers and shorts down his hard-muscled hips before curling both hands around his stiff dick, feeling his pulse thrum beneath finely tender skin. These days, Steve has to admit, he does like his job.

He can worry later about whether he likes it too much. Right now it's Gabe's turn to enjoy it. Steve licks boldly into Gabe's mouth and Gabe stutters a moan and jerks his head back, unsealing their lips, gasping, "Wait, wait a minute." Steve lifts his lashes just enough to take in the velvety dampness of Gabe's cheeks and forehead, his heavy-lidded eyes, and smiles demurely over the swell of accomplishment. Gabe sees Steve looking and shuts his eyes tight, and though Steve can't see the blush he presses his lips to Gabe's cheek and soaks in the heat.

He can almost feel the heavy breathing from the other side of the fire, too, the audience gone raptly silent. Gabe kneels up and Steve watches the roll and flex of his shoulders as he shrugs off his jacket and shirt; he didn't wear an undershirt, and Steve reaches up to run five fingertips through the crisp curls scattered across his chest, comparing them to those thatching his balls. Steve loosely strokes with both hands, thinks about how he'd recreate this texture in pencil, watches Gabe's lower lip tremble as he stares hot-eyed, and smirks.

Gabe blinks slowly, twice, thrice, then gathers himself with a submerged shudder and smirks back as he pulls from Steve's grasp. "Je ne suis jamais timide," he says as he shucks his trousers and shorts, toeing off his boots. Someone, probably Dugan, whoops appreciatively, and Gabe tosses an extended middle finger up, but he never looks away from Steve, even when Steve belatedly understands and has to crack up laughing, curling his knees up into his chest. 

Gabe rumbles into a laugh, vibrating deep as he slides a hand up Steve's thigh, as he kisses Steve again, grips his hip and rolls him bodily. Steve pushes into it, getting his knees beneath him, shivering a little as the breeze winds across his skin and Gabe strokes up over the small of his back. Gabe likes Steve on his hands and knees, likes fitting his broad chest to Steve's narrow back and tucking his nose behind Steve's ear, likes mouthing at his jaw and kissing his nape as he fucks him. Steve likes it like that too, likes Gabe's solidity blanketing him, likes being able to rock into and out of the thrusts. Gabe eases in, careful despite all the slick Steve applied, and Steve's breath streams out through his grin, his own tackle twitching heavily. It's not like Gabe won't nail him good and deep by the end of things, if Steve gets him to forget himself, like he should.

Like Steve tries to distract them all, at least for a few moments of relief. Easing open his eyes, Steve lets his jaw hang loose, picks his head up to push back into Gabe's cheek pressed to his throat, and looks towards the panting across the fire. Dugan's practically drooling, Monty's eyes glitter, Dernier's wearing that little fond smile of his as his deft hands assemble something squarish and probably explosive. Steve shapes his slack mouth into a smile for them, watching them watch him and Gabe. 

He knows the picture they make, the "interesting composition" Mac, who taught him to draw bluesies, would've called it. Steve squeezes his eyes shut under the memory, gripping handfuls of lumpy cloth as he rocks against Gabe, and Gabe wraps an arm around him and pulls him sharply back into the next plunging thrust. Steve gasps, or meant to, but the noise that falls out of his mouth is full of vowels and pleasure, and Gabe rumbles a warm response as Dernier calls, "Un coup habile!" 

"What he said!" DumDum puts in, and Gabe smothers a rolling laugh into Steve's shoulder, Steve gasps a chuckle as he rolls his eyes and braces his arms. Gabe's speeding up, like Steve knew he would, Dernier nudges Monty, and beyond them a movement catches Steve's eye: Jim, leaning back against a tree, arms folded, mouth a thin downcurved line. 

Steve knows whose turn comes next, after he gets Gabe off. He concentrates, flexing his insides the way Cal told him about back at the pro station, and Gabe groans and shudders and breathes Steve's name into his ear, over and over. Steve hums in answer and keeps it up, pushing from the heels of his hands all the way up his spine as he smacks back into Gabe's thrusts, until Gabe squeezes him tight and rises to a pounding pace he can't match. "Ah, ah," Steve hears himself gasping, but Gabe groans louder against his nape, vibrating deep and happy, the tension in him racheting down pulse by pulse until he almost goes limp, puffing a laugh into Steve's hair.

The audience cheers hoarsely. Smiling openmouthed, Steve turns his head until Gabe's lips press his cheek, and Gabe pulls him into a breathless kiss. Steve kisses back as he eases forward one more time, pulling off of Gabe, who rocks back as they tug and pop apart, settling on his heels. Reaching overhand, Steve grips Gabe's shoulder and pulls himself up, Gabe's hand sliding down his chest and belly as he wobbles to his feet. 

Gabe's palm rasps sweetly down the length of his erect dick, sending a bolt down Steve's nerves, his knees threatening to dump him back to the bedroll. "Oh hey, sorry!" Gabe says in winded dismay.

"It's okay." Steve squeezes his solid shoulder, turning from under his broad hand. "I don't have time for a nap yet, but you do." Gabe grins, shaking his head, and lets Steve step away. Dugan whistles, Monty and Dernier look intently hopeful, but Steve waves as he walks around them and heads across the clearing. The moss is springy and ticklish underfoot, the fresh breeze eddies cool around his sweat-damp legs, he keeps his steps measured as he clenches tight. His ass twinges after the pounding Gabe gave him, but now isn't the time to go all sloppy wet. 

He stops in front of Jim, who gives him a halfways smile. "Hey, Morita," he says lightly, knowing he's not exactly what Jim longs for, all flat chested and smelling of guy. But Steve's learned how to work with it. "Close your eyes?"

"You better watch my back, then." Steve just smirks and reaches out with two fingers, lightly brushing them down from Jim's eyebrows to shut his eyes, then slides to his knees on the cushiony moss.

"Still got that drawing in your pocket?" Steve undoes Jim's flies, slides his hands up Jim's lean belly and down into his trousers and shorts. He's not hard, not yet.

"You always going to ask me that?" There's a little life in Jim's voice now, and in his dick, perking up under Steve's stroking fingers. 

"Till I get a chance to draw a new one," Steve replies pretty much into Jim's belly-button, brushing his lips across tensed flesh. "Get that picture in your head," he orders as he trails his mouth slowly down slippery hair to Jim's firming dick. By now Steve knows just how to tuck Jim's shorts around his balls, how fast he'll harden all the way once Steve starts sucking. As he inhales crisp musk, feeling Jim harden on his tongue, Steve remembers the sketch; he's drawn something for all the guys, on scraps of paper with whittled pencils. He gave Barnes one with a whole story to it that made him laugh out loud, and the one Jim's got has a girl with a sleekly gleaming bob swinging around her cheeks as she grins back over her shoulder, hands on her hips and long legs apart, showing off her round ass and a sweet side curve of tit. It's a silly pose -- Steve's never seen a real woman stand like that, even life drawing models -- but the way Jim's eyes lit up said she did her job.

Like Steve sets out to do now, as Jim sighs and unfolds an arm, threading long fingers through Steve's hair. Instead of bobbing like he did with Juniper, Steve just sucks steadily, keeping his lips and tongue as soft as he can. Jim breathes deep and sighs again, long and fragmented with a word in the middle; it might be a name with too many vowels to be Steve's, but that's a good sign, accomplishment pinging down his nerves as he keeps going.

In fact, Steve concentrates so hard he doesn't notice the suspicious silence behind him until calloused hands fold around the crests of his hips. He clamps down on his startle, makes his spine flex and lets himself shift under the hands's wordless direction as they tug his ass up till his chest's parallel to the ground. Apparently someone, he's still trying to figure out who, isn't willing to wait anymore. He tries to be quiet and not distracting when he's with Jim, so he accepts the challenge by kicking his heel in the general direction of a canvas-covered knee, and gets a shiver of laughter down the legs shifting between his thighs and a soft mustached brush of lips between his shoulder blades. Probably Dernier, then, maybe Monty. Dugan couldn't do soft if his life depended on it.

The hand strokes up off his left hip, thick thumb sliding down his crack, parting his cheeks, tugging his heated, tingling hole open just enough. Steve shivers and sucks and reconsiders his conclusion: are either Monty or Dernier left-handed? The blunt press of a hard dick distracts him back to what he's doing, and one cock presses the back of his tongue as another slides weightily into him, clothed legs pressing flush with his bare thighs. 

Steve swallows and breathes, shudders and concentrates, filled slickly at both ends. The guy at his ass slides out and pushes in, establishing a steady stroke, and Steve swallows the soft huffs being pressed out of him, absorbing each smack of flesh on flesh, holding himself steady from shoulders up. He never did two at once before he came to war, and now he thinks of his first time at it, a busy night when a pair of buddies took their turn together, nudging him into each other's strokes, laughing and encouraging each other as they had him at both ends. Sometimes the Howlies do that with him, setting a rolling rhythm between two of them, if less single-mindedly than that pair who were obviously fucking each other through him. This time is different, like having two conversations at once, riding the thrusts while keeping himself still and easy for Jim. It's a challenge, and Steve works to meet it, even when the man behind him strokes his back and he has to tamp down a pleased shiver. 

He's pretty sure he caught a sharp whiff of explosive that time, which means Dernier, who _would_ pull a stunt like this. Steve kicks his knee again and gets a rough-palmed pat between his shoulder blades, just before Jim groans climactically. Steve swallows around him spurt by spurt, even when probably-Dernier picks up the pace sharply enough to rattle his ribs. He's not backing down.

"Mmm," Jim sighs, petting Steve's hair twice, "thanks -- what. The Hell?" Steve feels the burst of raspy laughter behind him as much as he hears it, pulls back from Jim to look up at his open-mouthed dumbfounded face, and helplessly cracks up too, shuddering with laughter and thrusts. "Frenchie," Jim insists as Steve looks over his shoulder into Dernier's merrily sparkling eyes, "When the fuck did you get there?"

"Je suis rapide et très tranquille," Dernier puffs loftily, and Steve drops his head and keeps laughing, tensing around Dernier moving inside him. Everyone's laughing around them, a warm buoying cacophony, including a baritone from the left; as Jim shifts away Steve catches himself against the smooth-barked tree trunk and glances over. 

Barnes stands there watching, hands in pockets, smile glinting, eyes dark beneath heavy lids. The sight of him jolts through Steve, painfully sweet, and he belatedly winks and shoves harder against the tree for leverage, wringing a groan out of Dernier; Barnes smiles a little wider as he nods in answer, like he's tilting an invisible cap to Steve.

Done doing up his flies, Jim pats Steve's arm as he turns and stomps towards Barnes, who greets him with, "You shoulda seen your _face_ , Morita!" That starts Steve gasping out laughter again, and Dernier behind him, so he doesn't catch more than Jim's fake-grumpy tone as their voices trail away. It doesn't really matter. Dernier groans happily, and Steve gulps down a breath and smiles.

A deliberately thumping step makes Steve hoist his head, looking through his shivering bangs to see Monty approaching. "May I fit?" Monty asks, stepping carefully over Steve's braced arm to kneel between his hands, back to the tree. 

Dernier's going for it now, grunting and pounding away in earnest, gripping Steve's hips so hard they creak. It's not the easiest to talk while being fucked bone-rattlingly hard, each thrust jolting sparks down his nerves, but that just makes it a challenge to rise to. "Of course," Steve puffs as grandly as he can, grinning around his gasps as Monty slides a hand through his dangling bangs and strokes them up off his forehead. "Hey, Falsworth."

"Hello, Mr. Rogers." As Dernier noisily starts coming Monty braces Steve's shoulder, stroking his throat with his pointer finger, and Steve shuts his eyes and leans into Monty's grip, digging his knees into the moss as Dernier collapses panting across his back and rubs rough-palmed hands down his thighs. "Had a good ride?" Monty calls to Dernier, making Steve snort, and Dernier hums ticklishly into Steve's ribs, kissing him over his spine as he tugs himself out, patting Steve's hip before heaving to his feet with a satisfied little grunt. 

"Thought it was you, you know," Steve teases, folding his quivering legs beneath him as he drops his arms to Monty's long thighs. Monty's eyes glint as he listens, curving his whole hand around the side of Steve's throat in a palpably fond gesture. "Cutting in on Morita's turn."

"How so?" Monty undoes his flies as he asks, one-handed, curving his gripping hand around the back of Steve's head.

"Dernier's too much a gentleman." Steve pushes into Monty's hold, pressing his hands gently into the creases between hip and thigh.

"What am I, then?" Monty strokes his thumb across Steve's ear, and his eyelids sag with pleasure, his body light enough to float. He hasn't been touched this much in years, since his time with Paul the Artist. The pro station was different, the servicemen there gripped and clutched him as they used him, just another amenity provided by Uncle Sam. 

Here the Howlies know him, at least a little, and he's getting to know each of them bit by bit. "You're too much of a gentleman to pass up the chance," Steve answers, keeping his eyes open and his smirk provoking, trying not to be too obvious about how much he likes the ways his guys touch him. 

As Monty grins into an actual laugh he gently grips Steve's chin, and the warmth in Steve's chest blazes up even higher. "Ah, I see," he murmurs, maneuvering his hard cock out with one hand, pushing his other thumb over Steve's tongue. "Fortunately, as a gentleman -- " Steve closes his lips around Monty's thumb and his breath catches for one triumphant second, " -- ah, I've received a proper education in how to handle a saucy mouth."

Steve tightens his lips and sucks, as saucily as he can, which probably looks a bit ridiculous, but Monty's eyes are clear and dark beneath his bright beret, his lips parting the tiniest fraction as Steve works his thumb over like a dick and curls a hand around the base of his actual dick, tucking two fingers beneath as his ballsack tightens. Monty cards his fingers through Steve's hair as Steve leans in, pulling off Monty's thumb to make the switch. 

A heavy footstep thumps behind Steve. Only one man could be so deliberately loud on mossy ground, and Steve snorts around his rounded mouthful as Monty calls over him, "Piss off, Dugan, I won that coin toss fair and square!"

"Let you pick which end, didn't I?" Dugan huffs down onto his knees, genially slapping Steve's inner thighs apart. "Hey, kid, don't mind me, there's room for one more, right?" Shifting his knees apart, sucking evenly around Monty, Steve thinks a moment about angles and lines, then kicks DumDum medium-hard in just about the same spot where DumDum slapped him, and gets a satisfying meaty thunk. 

Monty laughs, already a little breathless. "Well struck!" Dugan laughs too, and smacks Steve's ass resoundingly, the bright heat of it rippling out through his scant flesh, across his twinging asshole. Steve shudders, letting loose a low moan; on the scale of pains he's felt in his life, it's by far one of the better ones. Monty breathes a sharp surprised noise, and Steve pulls back enough to look up at his lips parted a little wider, his perked mustache and glittering eyes.

"Feisty today?" Dugan pushes broad bare thighs between Steve's, rocking him up off his knees, and Steve grips Monty's thighs for balance. He could pull off all the way, twist around and ask Dugan what the hell it is he's doing, but that would leave Monty out in the cold, even briefly, and besides DumDum wouldn't actually want the satisfaction. Instead, Steve shimmies into Dugan's pull, reaching his toes towards the mossy ground. If that shakes his ass in DumDum's face it's no business of his, but the loud groan behind him does make Steve think a smirk to himself as Dugan nudges him bluntly. 

"Today and everyday," Monty murmurs overhead, petting Steve's hair as Dugan pushes in solidly, filling him till he twinges. "Brings to mind a boy I knew in my school days." A cockhead nudging his throat and another sliding weightily inside him, Steve digs his toes into the springy moss and pushes into Monty's hand, grounding himself against the floatiness rising inside him, like dizziness without the spin. 

Dugan hums deep and puffs, "What'd you get up to then in your fancy pants school?" rocks into the thrusts and hits Steve just right, sparking pleasure inside him, a blurt of precome pulsing down his dick to bead and drip off, a hungry ache throbbing in its wake. But Dugan's next thrusts are just more blunt blows, and Steve shifts minutely under his grip. He's tempted to angle himself to chase that sensation, but that's not his job right now.

"Just the usual genteel education," Monty murmurs. Arching his spine, Steve lets each thrust reverberate through him, rocking back to catch his breath, forward as he sucks. Gasping through his nose, trying to keep his own noise low, he floats and listens to Monty's hushed voice past Dugan's increasingly loud eagerness. "Latin, history, some maths, more buggery."

Dugan booms a laugh Steve feels from the inside, curls his broad hands tighter around Steve's thighs and pulls him back hard enough to ache brightly. Swallowing down a shout, Steve tenses and squeezes, and DumDum swears gratifyingly over him. "Uh, fuck, was your little boyfriend as good a lay as our Rogers?"

"Not nearly so scientific about it." Steve could almost wonder what that's supposed to mean, but Monty mollifies him, stroking down through his hair over his cheek, thumb brushing the stretched edge of his mouth. "Almost as earnest and near as proud, slender and fair, mouth full of sharp words and sweet around a cock."

Steve feels a hot blush rise in his cheeks, layered over the warm flush of fucking. Dugan groans a chuckle, pulling a hand off Steve's thigh to rub over his nape and down his back. "Whadda you think, kid? Gonna match up Monty's old school sweetheart?" 

Of course he will; if it's worth doing it's worth doing well. Steve throws his full concentration into it, curling his tongue under Monty's cockhead, smacking back into DumDum's thrusts, and Monty swears astonishingly while Dugan collapses into a sort of grunting wail. His mind flashes with an image of himself taking it from both ends, Monty clinging to his hair and composing variations on bloody blasphemies, Dugan groaning from the bottom of his lungs as his heavy hips start to stutter. Steve used to shove away those thoughts before their burden of shame could drag him down, but now he feels DumDum jerk inside him and shout over him, coming hard as a freight train, and feels buoyant with a job almost done.

As Dugan hangs onto Steve's thighs with shaking hands, Monty shudders into flooding Steve's mouth, softly muttering, "Fuck," each time Steve swallows around him. Alight with a strange sense of power as he gentles down his sucking and pulls air through his nose, Steve realizes all over again he did this to them, he does this for them. He's supposed to feel shrunken and unmanned by this work, but it's billowing pride that fills him to the brim till he could almost float off Dugan's lap.

He chuckles as he pulls off Monty, with a final lick to make him hiss. "Bloody fucking Hell," Monty gasps appreciatively, and Steve drags his well-exercised tongue across his tingling lips and grins, gripping Monty's thighs as Dugan groans and tugs out, hiding the little wince. Dugan pats his ass heavily, and Steve clenches and sits back as Monty pushes himself up, carefully forcing his air-hungry gasps into a useful pattern. His head spins a little, his dick throbs between his thighs, the wind trails a fine sharp edge like fingernails across his skin.

A dark-light-gold shape looms from the corner of his eye, his heart trips and thumps and he glances up. It's Barnes in shirtsleeves, a step away, a cup in one hand, the other reaching to tap Steve's shoulder. "Hey," Barnes says, cheeks curling with his smile as he hands over the brimming cup. Steve didn't even realize how thirsty he was, his mouth tacky dry and edged with bitter salt. He takes the cup, nodding gratefully, but as he swallows the cool chemical-tinged water he peers over the rim, watching Barnes nonchalantly unfasten and peel trousers and shorts down his long sculpted legs. As his eyes follow the slide of cloth down pale dark-flecked skin, Steve wonders, not for the first time, if he could ask Barnes to model for a nude; he strokes his gaze back up and remembers biting a path along those hard-muscled thighs, finds Barnes's dick hard and dark inside a lazy curve of fist. 

The cup's empty but Steve's mouth is watering. He sets it down and stares up at Barnes standing over him, tall and shapely as a statue, radiating warmth into the cooling air. The thing that startles him over and over again is how eagerly he'd suck Barnes's dick, job or no. What scares and delights him, rushing through his chest like a gale, is how much he likes it when Barnes goes last. Steve looks up, over the soft white shirt hanging from Barnes's broad shoulders, into Barnes's crinkled-cornered eyes as he gives himself a slow pull and his smile broadens just a bit. Desire tenses Steve's belly and lights up his nerves, his own balls and dick throbbing against the soft moss. More and more, as the days get warmer and the adrenaline rushes more frequent, getting Barnes off doesn't feel like work at all.

"Hey, Sarge," Steve murmurs as Barnes steps carefully over his arm, remarkably graceful for a man with pants around his ankles. 

"Hey, Rogers." Barnes slides to his knees, leaning back against the long-suffering tree, and Steve sways up onto his, more than ready to wrap his mouth around Barnes's more-than-ready dick.

At least, until Barnes lets go himself to grab Steve under both arms and haul him up onto his bared lap, grinning at Steve's outraged face. "Hey!" Steve tries to bark and pretty much just squawks. "Sarge, hey!" Barnes has a terrible habit of tossing him around, picking him up and shifting him; Steve tries his best to object appropriately, because no matter how little he is a fella shouldn't let himself be manhandled, but what swoops through his belly isn't anything like anger. 

"Yes?" Barnes drawls the word out, swinging his lashes down over those big deep eyes of his, as he lugs Steve forward, tucking them together chest to chest and belly to belly. Their dicks brush velvetly and they both shiver, but Barnes just keeps holding Steve there, four fingertips pressed into each shoulder blade, thumbs brushing along his collarbone.

"You don't haveta drag me around," Steve bickers, smacking his palms flat on Barnes's chest, weatherbeaten-soft shirt over hot skin. "I can move just fine." 

"Yeah, well, maybe I like moving you." Steve pushes and Barnes effortlessly hauls him in even tighter.

So of course Steve retaliates. "Well, sorr- _eee_ , sir--" Barnes growls, still smiling, a feral light in his eyes as his eyebrows angle sharply, and slams his mouth onto Steve's, wrapping his broad arms around Steve tightly enough to squeeze the air out of him. That's about as far as Steve expected to get anyway, and the bear hug will keep him upright no matter how he melts, so he slips his arms up around Barnes's neck, rutting against him as the kiss turns messy and plunging, tongues and bellies and dicks sliding alongside each other. 

Someone, probably Dugan, whoops at the show, but Steve doesn't bother sparing a hand to flip them the bird. Barnes's thick hair warms his fingers, Barnes's broad hands roam his back and clutch his hips, and the exhilarating floatiness pushes Steve up into Barnes's grounding hold. He knows he's forgetting himself, kissing so greedily, pushing so selfishly into the touch, but Barnes hums into his mouth, low and pleased, firming up his grip, and Steve clutches his nape, grabs his shoulder, rocking until he can get his knees against the ground for leverage, willing Barnes to just pull him up and push him down and fuck him already.

Barnes squeezes Steve's hips, sharply enough to feel bone through his nonexistent padding, but gropes up Steve's sides to grab him under the arms again, muffling Steve's objection with his soft laughing mouth as he pulls Steve up and turns him around, their lips smearing apart. "Hey!" is all Steve can yelp before he thumps down on Barnes's thighs, and Barnes pulls him up again, folding one arm across Steve's chest from armpit to armpit, reaching down with the other and - "Oh!" Steve gasps as Barnes lines himself up, nudging between Steve's cheeks. Rolling his hand, Barnes pinches Steve's ass as he lowers him down, and Steve grits his teeth against an indignant noise, digs his fingertips hard into Barnes's hard forearms, and bears down around the hardness filling him.

One long slick slide and they thump flush, and it's Barnes's turn to give up a noise, "Fuck," bursting out of him through Steve's hair. "Fuck, fuck, Rogers, you're a fuckin' mess."

"Yeah, well," Steve puffs, scrabbling for a grip, tossing a hand back to clutch Barnes's hair again. "blame your Howlies." He hauls on Barnes's hair, feeling him shudder with each yank, pulling him down enough to press lips against his heated ear. "Blame 'em for fucking me first," Steve murmurs, and Barnes groans into his shoulder, smearing his hot open mouth along Steve's throat. "For -- uh --" as Barnes bounces him hard enough to strike sparks off that spot inside him, behind his eyes -- "getting me all wet and ready, ugh, ready for you --" 

Barnes licks into his mouth, kissing him hard, and Steve just hangs on and stops trying to think enough to talk dirty. It always sounds a little silly to him, but back in February they got him just perfectly drunk and he stumbled on how much a little lip gets Barnes going. He limped the whole next day but Barnes's every satisfied smile was worth it. 

It's worth it now, with Barnes louder than usual, sounding happy sooner than usual as he moans deep into Steve's mouth, showing no sign of letting up on the kiss. Tugging Steve along as he sits back, Barnes sprawls his knees wide, shoving Steve's apart too, unmuffling the wet sex-noises as he bounces Steve smoothly. Anyone watching must be able to see Barnes's dick plunging into him, Steve pictures, and if he had anything left to blush with he would. But he doesn't pull away to look. He throws his other arm up, gripping behind Barnes's neck, gets his toes on the ground, and pushes into the thrusts, grabbing back a little control.

Barnes chuckles, flattening his big hands across Steve's chest and belly, closing fingertips around Steve's nipple. The tweak zings down his nerves and Steve shakes, clenching tight enough around Barnes inside him to pull out a hiss, but he doesn't give up the shout he knows Barnes wants. Baring his teeth against Barnes's lip as he digs his toes into the moss, Steve throws his back into it, slapping down hard enough his asscheeks tingle, rolling his hips so Barnes's moans sharpen. 

There's a slapping noise beyond them too, someone moans quietly, and Steve wonders if anyone might want a second helping, thinks of how Barnes is showing off, the picture they make kissing and fucking here under this tree. Three years ago and an ocean away, Paul-the-Artist showed Steve off a few times, at a couple of parties, on a few visits to some swanky baths. It didn't last all that long before Steve stopped going back and Paul got a less opinionated boy, but Steve remembers the nearly unbearable thrill of being watched and touched at the same time, shivers warmly into it now as Barnes strokes his heaving ribs and rubs back and forth across his nipples, groping too quickly to torment any one spot past endurance. Except, of course, for the sensitive place throbbing inside Steve with every thrust, pushing a cry little by little up his throat as his balls tighten pulse by pulse.

But not yet, not yet. Gathering his last scraps of strength, Steve rides Barnes as hard as he can and Barnes slams up to meet him, trembling like a rockslide, arms tightening till Steve's ribs lock and his heart bangs around between his immobilized lungs. A few more frenzied bounces and Barnes lets loose a ragged noise and starts to come. Honest to God sobs rip out of Barnes's shaking chest and Steve swallows them down, his head spinning like a skyward balloon, until Barnes slumps beneath him, behind him, mouth firming into a grateful kiss.

A smooch, another, and Barnes curls a rough warm hand around Steve's aching dick, a shockwave of sensation blasting through him, Barnes still taut and solid deep inside him. Steve gives up a whimper, Barnes hums against his parted lips and starts stroking, and Steve clutches at Barnes's hair and his own pleasure. He can't keep quiet, soft noises falling from his mouth into Barnes's on every breath as Barnes steadily rubs him ablaze.

Steve goes off like a bomb, shouting out loud, only Barnes's arms tight around him keeping him from fragmenting, or so it feels. He collapses gasping, his head sinking heavily to Barnes's shoulder, and Barnes kisses him one more time, brushing a wide smile across his panting mouth. Steve should sit up, say something, ease off and start cleaning up, but a sweet weariness billows through him and his head lolls, Barnes's shirt soft and skin warm under his damp forehead.

He used to do eight solid hours of this, Steve reminds himself, sometimes more. He's not gonna pass out now just because he let Barnes rub one outta him. He wrestles his head up, dropping his hands to push up on Barnes's thighs as he straightens out of his slump, and shoves his eyelids up. There's a star in the evening blue sky and a shine in Barnes's deeper blue eyes, and he chucks Steve gently beneath the chin like he likes to do sometimes.

Steve tries to bare his teeth but he knows it comes out as a smile, even before Barnes smiles wider with that tender pink mouth of his. 

Then he sets both hands on Steve's shoulders and gently pushes him off and up onto his feet. Steve's legs wobble, his knees nearly knocking, and a hot stream trickles down the back of his thigh. He looks ahead and finds Dernier flat on his back, DumDum and Monty and Jim sitting and smoking and grinning, and Gabe standing half-dressed in front of his tent. Looking at them all looking at Barnes and at him, Steve doesn't quite trust his voice yet, but he rolls his eyes elaborately. Dugan just laughs, Dernier grins at the sky, and Monty smiles wider.

Barnes, who is a sneaky asshole, takes that moment to scoop Steve up in his arms. "Okay, show's over," he calls over Steve's attempt at objections and everyone else's chuckles, carrying Steve off like a goddamn bridegroom. 

"Hey, my --" but Steve sees no sign of his bedroll or his clothes, which hopefully means some kind soul stowed them for him. "--feet are fine!" he finishes, kicking them a little, squeezing tight even though Barnes would deserve a sleeve full of jizz for this stunt. "Put me down, Sarge, I can walk!" 

"We gonna go over this again?" Barnes elbows the tent flap aside, and there's Steve's bedroll and his folded clothes beside his pack, not that he has much chance to look because Barnes swings him high in the air, like he thinks it'll make Steve clutch him and squeal or something. Instead Steve pries his hand off Barnes's shoulder and throws his arms up, ostentatiously not holding on. 

Barnes just laughs, falling to his knees with a thud that makes Steve wince though he doesn't, and lays Steve down light as a feather on the bedroll. Steve growls, folding his arms, because Barnes knows better, and gets a big cheesy smile and those heavy-lidded eyes in answer as Barnes leans in over him, shucking his trousers back down, kicking off his boots, prying at his shirt. He's hard again, ready and shiny slick, maybe never even went down after the last round. 

The two of the squad who most often want a second turn are Juniper, because he's nineteen, and Barnes, driven by the same fire inside him that burns through triple rations and gives him the strength to bend metal. Steve usually indulges Juniper, to everyone's entertainment and because he knows he's often the only treat they've got, but Barnes always gets his second go, because he's the Sarge and Steve sleeps with him.

Which doesn't mean Steve's just gonna roll over. "Pants on fire?" he asks as Barnes unbuttons, trying to sound calm and cool with his heart racing and his belly doing a little hungry squirm like he wasn't just about to pass out on Barnes's lap a minute ago. 

"I like your outfit," Barnes answers, bottom lip gleaming mouthwateringly in the dimness, "so I thought I'd dress to match." 

Steve snorts, folding his arms tighter as if his thighs aren't falling open. "Hope you left your good lines in Brooklyn for safekeeping, 'cause otherwise they got shot off somewhere out here." Barnes looks much better in this lack of outfit than Steve ever will, his chest broad and muscles thick yet sleek, but Steve's not about to say so, not yet.

He looks especially good when he laughs again, his eyes crinkled and shining, his forehead smooth like they hit it off in some dive and got a room for the night, rather than Steve being military-issue supplies. Which is dumb for Steve to think, not least now and here, when Barnes can see it on his face and lose that sweet smile. Steve starts to shake his head but Barnes catches him, lightly gripping the scruff of his neck, looking down into him with bottomless eyes.

As he leans in he wraps his hand around Steve's folded forearms, his kiss soft as a cotton ball for three annoying seconds while Steve doesn't budge. Then Barnes bites his lip, perfectly sharp-sweetly, laughing as Steve yelps, and Steve laughs too as Barnes jerks back and nips at his chin. Tugging at Steve's arms until Steve tosses them up around his neck, Barnes sinks into the next kiss, rough and deep and proper, and Steve grips his broad shoulders and kisses back, the throb spreading from his lip across all of his skin, pulsing in time with his racing heart.

Barnes scoops Steve's knees up in his elbows, shuffling up onto the bedroll between Steve's parted thighs. "One more go?" he asks, unnecessarily, endearingly.

Steve should nod and say yes and get to it, he even wants to, way down deep. Instead he simply can't resist. "Last fella who asked for seconds I told him everyone else was waiting for their helpings." 

Barnes's eyebrows go up as he pauses, their noses tip to tip. "What're you telling me?"

Steve looks up, and curls his hands tighter around Barnes's shoulders, and gives in. "Maybe I can scrape the pot." Barnes bares his teeth properly, sending delighted terror shivering down Steve's nerves, lunges in all the way and kisses him teeth-first. 

Breathing, bracing, being kissed down to where his tonsils used to be, Steve exhales as Barnes pushes solidly into him again, his tailbone rocking up off the bedroll, his shoulders taking the weight. If anything Barnes is even more intense when they're alone, without the showy aspect of it, more tender and more forceful at the same time, and today he's clearly in a mood for kissing. Steve sinks into it, the pleasure of being filled and pounded, Barnes's broad warm body pressing his down just right, Barnes's tongue curling in his mouth --

\-- but he pulls back abruptly, leaving Steve gasping. "Hey?" Steve sputters, confused, reaching up for him again and finding his cheek, its smoothness just starting to texture with silk-rough stubble. "Sarge?"

"'m here," Barnes mumbles, tilting his head to suck Steve's thumb between his lips, running his tongue around it. Steve's reminded of Barnes's hot supple mouth around his dick, something he wouldn't've dared imagine until it happened, twice, and now he's hardening again already. He blinks dazedly and finds Barnes watching his face, blinking a slower pace than the steady roll of his hips. 

Something unknots inside Steve's chest, some rigid sinew melting loose, and he doesn't know if it's something vital failing or a scar smoothing away. He wants to look anywhere but into the infinity in Barnes's eyes, to never look away. He doesn't. He pulls his thumb from Barnes's mouth and presses it wet over his nipple, fingers curving around his hard-muscled side, and watches Barnes's eyes flutter shut as he smiles openmouthed, shaking his head a little, his breath edging with a groan.

Barnes snaps his hips a bit harder, grinding down so his belly trail rasps sweetly along Steve's dick, and Steve tries to keep it together, he really does, but Barnes is hunting now, his eyebrows pulling in tight. He hits the right rhythm and Steve's spine snaps into an arch, his whole body betraying him, his head pressing back into the padding as his eyes roll shut. "Yeah," Barnes murmurs deep, keeping it up, and Steve clutches at him and can't keep quiet, noises spilling out louder and higher, from a whimper to a rising scream as his toes curl and his eyes water and the pleasure rears up as overwhelming as agony. "Yeah, c'mon," Barnes whispers, echoing in Steve's ears, his gaze brushing all over Steve's skin as Steve comes again, pulsing from his depths. 

Barnes rolls to a halt, trembling and rigid, as Steve cries out, shuddering around him, every tension loosing from his crimped toes to his unstrung shoulders. Steve gasps, heaving for breath, and Barnes snaps his hips hard, knocking another broken cry out of him. "That's it," Barnes mutters low and gravelly. "That's it, lemme hear you, baby."

Steve is melting loose and fucked out and his ribs hurt wonderfully with breathlessness, but he's still himself. "Not," he puffs, digging his lax fingers into Barnes's rock-hard biceps, "not your Goddamn baby." Barnes makes a noise like stone sliding across stone and slams his mouth onto Steve's, plunging in tonguefirst like he can climb entirely inside Steve's skin with him, just a handful more rattling thrusts until he comes for Steve, buried in Steve, shuddering over and inside him. 

They kiss, trading shivers, and kiss, and kiss. Eventually Steve's legs unwind from across Barnes's back and Barnes lets them down onto the bedroll so he can wrap his arms around Steve. Eventually they shift and Barnes slides out of him, but they're so lip locked it hardly matters. But eventually Barnes heaves a sigh and rolls them over, pulling Steve to lie on his chest, and when Steve tips his head back for a breath and a glance, Barnes looks up at him with those same bottomless eyes, reaches up and brushes rough knuckles gently across his cheek as he asks, "Why're you so ornery?"

Steve is too blown open to keep his mouth shut. "It's all I've got." He looks down, at his hand on Barnes's shoulder, away from the admission, away from those eyes.

Barnes kisses his forehead, between his eyebrows, and Steve feels the line smooth from between them. He looks up, and Barnes brushes a kiss over his mouth too. "No," he murmurs, "no it ain't." 

Steve should argue. It's wartime, the Howlies all met each other before they ever knew him, his three-month got re-upped again but who's to say he doesn't get recalled to London in August, and one day the war will end and Barnes will go home, to his parents and his sisters, without a stray pro boy in his pocket. Steve should point all of this out. Instead he drops his head to Barnes's shoulder, pressing his forehead under Barnes's chin. Barnes's tags glint in the dip of his throat, and as Steve curls his hand loosely around them, Barnes threads both hands's fingers into Steve's hair.

***** 

Steve wakes up when Barnes starts snoring. His back is broadly striped with Barnes's warm arms and the cool air, his thighs are sticky with drying spunk, and he's generally a mess. As is his bedroll, which he really shouldn't let Barnes sleep in. "Sarge," he mutters, pushing up, and Barnes's arms tighten reflexively around him. "Sarge, c'mon, wake up."

"Mmph. Steve -- Rogers." Steve blinks, but of course Barnes knows his first name, like he knows Barnes's is James and that nobody calls him that ever. Barnes's eyes open just enough to glint, he smiles a little and brushes Steve's hair back from his forehead. "Hey. Where you going?"

"Gotta clean up," Steve explains, and Barnes lets go, but not without another pat. He really likes just touching Steve. 

Steve tries not to like how much he likes having Barnes touch him. He ducks away, rocking back onto his heels, all his joints twinging in protest. Barnes sits up groaning and shivers elaborately, looking up at Steve from under his lashes. "Put your clothes on, it's cold."

"Yes, Sarge," Steve says dutifully, and Barnes swats lightly at his hip as he steps across to gather them up.

Steve wobbles outside and fetches some water. The fire's low coals, everyone's asleep in their tents except for the watch. Steve sleepwalks through cleaning up by the latrine, manages to neither fall in nor drop anything, and comes back dressed but for jacket and boots, to find Barnes properly in his own bedroll, apparently sound asleep. Steve wobbles indecisively for a moment, wanting Barnes's bare hot skin, wondering if he should risk waking him, but Barnes rolls towards him, holding out an arm, and Steve climbs in, settling into the bedroll and Barnes wrapped warmly around him.

***** 

It's one of those nights when sleep works like a dime novel time machine. Steve shuts his eyes with his cheek on Barnes's chest and the night thick around them, and wakes up with pink dawnlight streaming under the tent flap and his face mashed into the attached pillow, the otherwise empty bedroll carefully tucked up to his chin. Outside someone's still snoring, probably Juniper, and a couple guys mutter over their breakfast. Steve sits up, stretching until various joints pop, and gets up into his morning, feeling more cheerful than he has any right to.

He;s gotten through washing up, shaving, getting some coffee and good-mornings from Monty and Jim and DumDum, and eating the crackers out of a c-ration, by the time Barnes comes back with his own coffee in hand, pink-cheeked and freshly shaven. Steve blinks at him, remembering the rumpled, scruffy first sight of him, the pin-neat young soldier in his family photo, both images overlaid a moment on the combed, dressed Sergeant sitting down on the bedroll, uniform soft with creases but set in order. As Barnes takes a long pull of his coffee he raises his eyebrows at Steve's scrutiny, and several ridiculous thoughts tumble through Steve's head, of Barnes posing for him, of learning his favorite nickname, of how good he looks drinking Army coffee in the morning sunshine. Catching himself, Steve politely says, "Morning, Sarge," and finishes his own coffee as he hands the rest of the c-ration over. "Here, I already had the best part."

"What, the spackle?" Barnes passes over his mug in exchange as he peers into the tray. 

"No, the cardboard tabs." They trade little grins, and as he gets up to fetch a couple more Steve tells his disobediently swelling heart to settle down. At least, until Barnes wraps a hand around his elbow, and he turns back, heart jammed in his throat. "Sarge? Need anything?" Barnes just keeps looking at him with those bottomless eyes, and Steve plucks himself up and adds, as impertinently as he can, "I mean, I don't know how you didn't trip over your morning wood..."

Barnes snickers, and lets go of Steve to shovel in a mouthful as he shakes his head. "Nuh," he mumbles and swallows. "Thanks, but it's okay. I just -- anyway. Thanks, Rogers. For my breakfast."

"Uh, sure," Steve stammers back, not sure he wants to take credit for Uncle Sam's cooking, more certain than he should be that he'd like to stay and just watch Barnes eat. "Of course, Sergeant," he murmurs, and Barnes looks back down at the tray but not before Steve catches a hint of a smile. "You're always welcome."

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to be explicit about Steve's colorblindness here. I gave him [Tritanopia ](http://www.color-blindness.com/tritanopia-blue-yellow-color-blindness/) because it can be brought on by head injuries.


End file.
